Fun, action-packed update. So the Mac Ailpin dynasty will soon rule over the entire island? Any plans to make it all Gaelic? Is Brittany the next target? After you deal with the ominous things you alluded to at the end, of course.
O' Flower of Scotland-A Scotland The Old Gods AAR
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Hehehe you're not far off the mark Unc-I am debating what to do frankly once (or if) I get to rule over the whole of the Isles..watch this space Mr :happy:
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Indeed it might though I am waiting to see what tricks the game will throw at me-hopefully post the next instalment over the next few days then I can actually go back to playing the game haha
Friesland, The Low Countries
10th April 1108
Camp of the Scottish Army of Queen Fenella, General’s Pavilion
‘How long since The Queen passed?’ Richard mouthed his eyes misting with unbidden tears.
‘These two weeks gone Sire-I came as fast as I could, commandeered a carrack all the way from Leith, we hit a storm part way across the Northern Sea-‘
Richard waved away the protestations-he was not interested in recriminations-all he could feel was an unutterable sadness. He was now 57 but over the last ten years he had lost many of the people most dear to him: first his brother in 1105, infirm and bedridden, broken after being stripped of his Dukedom for disloyalty. It was true; he had become disagreeable and troublesome in his later years-always wanting more but he was his brother nonetheless. Then he had lost his wife Ælfflæd, The Queen of England just these two years past-she who had relied so heavily on him to bring peace to the realm-but he had failed. Not four months after their triumphant coronation, the English dynastic wars that they had sought to stop had been rekindled by none other than Beornwulf , now titled Earl of Middlesex-the King who they had deposed. The troubles carried on all throughout these early years of the new century and they had bequeathed them to their daughter, Bethoc, who now ruled that unquiet Kingdom with her partner, King Ealdmund…or tried to rule for, under Beornwulf, the mettlesome barons had given the Monarchs no rest and they had lost large parts of the south, such as Wessex and Somerset. Suffolk, too, was lost as well as the better part of Northumberland. Only five months previously, with Scotland quiescent, Richard was able to personally finance the despatch to their aid of an Army of 4000 Mercenaries and his own Moraymen.
He had hoped to personally lead the Highland army but not long after his summons to arms he had been sent on this fool’s errand to support the King of East Francia on behalf of his Queen. He was not even a soldier in the true sense of the word-had no love of the press of battle and the savagery therein. Yes he had been in the thick of fighting many times, had even been grievously wounded just four years past, putting down yet another rebellion in Athol, but he was no real general, despite his masterful command of heavy infantry tactics. He preferred intrigue to the clash of weapons, the whispers of Council Meetings to the advance and retreat of armies. And so he had been angered to be sent again to command Scottish troops, even though he knew that the Queen could entrust so great a responsibility to no other Lord. 'You are my Keeper of the Swans' she had reminded him gently. Thus now it was with the deepest regret that he remembered that this last meeting with his liege had been one of such rancour. He had been weary to his very bones and after the recent wounding that so nearly ended his life, not a little scared too. It was not as if he had nothing to live for: he had found a new wife, Eadflæd, the much younger sister of his beloved Ælfflæd and widower of a Welsh King. She was a mere 22 years, beautiful and reminded him in so many ways of his departed consort-never mind the whispers and gossip surrounding the fact that he also had a lover, Eithne of his court, with many wondering if one would have to yield to the other…
‘You will understand the meaning of realpolitik when you are King my friend,’ was all the 70 year old Queen had said to him propped up in her bed of state-she had been too ill, at the time, to sit a throne. She had then smiled weakly in the motherly way she often used to with him. She was his Aunt but in truth she had become far more of a parent to him than ever his own had been.
‘Sire! Sire!’ He was shaken out of his reverie by the Envoy, still kneeling before him, waiting, expectant, ‘what are your wishes my Liege?’
‘Liege? I am confirmed by the Dukes of Scotland and Ireland as King-elect but it must be formally done yet. And the Queen must be buried on Iona, as is custom. Let us have no more talk of “my liege” until I sit atop the Lia Faill, the Stone of Destiny, in Scone.’
‘Yes Sire-I mean my Lord.’
‘Good. See that this man is fed and watered and find him a pavilion to rest in!’ Richard’s mind was turning-he had an army to transport back to Scotland-well over 6000 soldiers and their camp followers. They would need to be quartered somewhere, though, but he had no intention of disbanding them just yet-they would be launched at his daughter’s enemies just as soon as he was secure on his own throne-until then they would act as surety against any Lords who sought to dispute the will of the Electors of Scotland and Ireland.
He addressed one of his own pages-‘Lad call the Earl of Strathearn and the Quartermaster, tell them to make haste. The Army returns to Scotland apace! And send an envoy to the King of East Francia-our war here is over-we are going home!’
The World as it is on the Accession of Richard I, King of Scots and Ireland
10th April 1108
Camp of the Scottish Army of Queen Fenella, General’s Pavilion
‘How long since The Queen passed?’ Richard mouthed his eyes misting with unbidden tears.
‘These two weeks gone Sire-I came as fast as I could, commandeered a carrack all the way from Leith, we hit a storm part way across the Northern Sea-‘
Richard waved away the protestations-he was not interested in recriminations-all he could feel was an unutterable sadness. He was now 57 but over the last ten years he had lost many of the people most dear to him: first his brother in 1105, infirm and bedridden, broken after being stripped of his Dukedom for disloyalty. It was true; he had become disagreeable and troublesome in his later years-always wanting more but he was his brother nonetheless. Then he had lost his wife Ælfflæd, The Queen of England just these two years past-she who had relied so heavily on him to bring peace to the realm-but he had failed. Not four months after their triumphant coronation, the English dynastic wars that they had sought to stop had been rekindled by none other than Beornwulf , now titled Earl of Middlesex-the King who they had deposed. The troubles carried on all throughout these early years of the new century and they had bequeathed them to their daughter, Bethoc, who now ruled that unquiet Kingdom with her partner, King Ealdmund…or tried to rule for, under Beornwulf, the mettlesome barons had given the Monarchs no rest and they had lost large parts of the south, such as Wessex and Somerset. Suffolk, too, was lost as well as the better part of Northumberland. Only five months previously, with Scotland quiescent, Richard was able to personally finance the despatch to their aid of an Army of 4000 Mercenaries and his own Moraymen.
He had hoped to personally lead the Highland army but not long after his summons to arms he had been sent on this fool’s errand to support the King of East Francia on behalf of his Queen. He was not even a soldier in the true sense of the word-had no love of the press of battle and the savagery therein. Yes he had been in the thick of fighting many times, had even been grievously wounded just four years past, putting down yet another rebellion in Athol, but he was no real general, despite his masterful command of heavy infantry tactics. He preferred intrigue to the clash of weapons, the whispers of Council Meetings to the advance and retreat of armies. And so he had been angered to be sent again to command Scottish troops, even though he knew that the Queen could entrust so great a responsibility to no other Lord. 'You are my Keeper of the Swans' she had reminded him gently. Thus now it was with the deepest regret that he remembered that this last meeting with his liege had been one of such rancour. He had been weary to his very bones and after the recent wounding that so nearly ended his life, not a little scared too. It was not as if he had nothing to live for: he had found a new wife, Eadflæd, the much younger sister of his beloved Ælfflæd and widower of a Welsh King. She was a mere 22 years, beautiful and reminded him in so many ways of his departed consort-never mind the whispers and gossip surrounding the fact that he also had a lover, Eithne of his court, with many wondering if one would have to yield to the other…
‘You will understand the meaning of realpolitik when you are King my friend,’ was all the 70 year old Queen had said to him propped up in her bed of state-she had been too ill, at the time, to sit a throne. She had then smiled weakly in the motherly way she often used to with him. She was his Aunt but in truth she had become far more of a parent to him than ever his own had been.
‘Sire! Sire!’ He was shaken out of his reverie by the Envoy, still kneeling before him, waiting, expectant, ‘what are your wishes my Liege?’
‘Liege? I am confirmed by the Dukes of Scotland and Ireland as King-elect but it must be formally done yet. And the Queen must be buried on Iona, as is custom. Let us have no more talk of “my liege” until I sit atop the Lia Faill, the Stone of Destiny, in Scone.’
‘Yes Sire-I mean my Lord.’
‘Good. See that this man is fed and watered and find him a pavilion to rest in!’ Richard’s mind was turning-he had an army to transport back to Scotland-well over 6000 soldiers and their camp followers. They would need to be quartered somewhere, though, but he had no intention of disbanding them just yet-they would be launched at his daughter’s enemies just as soon as he was secure on his own throne-until then they would act as surety against any Lords who sought to dispute the will of the Electors of Scotland and Ireland.
He addressed one of his own pages-‘Lad call the Earl of Strathearn and the Quartermaster, tell them to make haste. The Army returns to Scotland apace! And send an envoy to the King of East Francia-our war here is over-we are going home!’
The World as it is on the Accession of Richard I, King of Scots and Ireland
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Yes indeed my friend though there are a few twists and turns-have been back at the game so now well ahead of myself again-expect a much longer post this weekend :closedeyes:
This is great, and the wiki-style was certainly novel (in a good way). That map is a mess tho, between the rebellions in France & England, whatever the Pagans are doing in Scandinavia & Pomerania and Poland, Poland, Poland.
It'll be nice to see how Richard does (and how long he lasts).
It'll be nice to see how Richard does (and how long he lasts).
Thanks Tyler-you're right: Europe is a basket case at the moment-as is England. Watch this space re Richard's Reign: Interesting interesting interesting
Hoping to post next much more meaty chapter this weekend
Dumbarton Castle, Clydesdale
15th February 1124
The imposing rocky edifice had been at the centre of the old Kingdom of Strathclyde until the Danes had come. Known as Alt Chluaidh or ‘Clyde Rock’ in old Gaelic, Laurence could see why this fortress was of such strategic significance and also why his Uncle, the King, had chosen to decamp there in these last few years of his reign. Bordered on its southern side by the mighty Clyde River at nearly its widest, the other three aspects of the castle rose up steeply from a vertiginous rocky outcrop making it a very difficult prospect to assault indeed.
Now this Dun Breatann or fortress of the Britons was fortress of the Scots and though a kingly residence it was receiving a very important visitor. The old King's nephew: Laurence, Duke of Albany and Gwynedd and his men at arms had approached by the North-eastern Postern gate-a steep, pitted track that had brought them through the old town.
The sight of so many torches and the sigil of Albany, so similar to that of the royal coat of arms of Scotland: a rampant lion in crimson against a saffron background surrounded by twin escutcheons of the order of the thistle, had brought the garrison to a state of high alert.
‘Who passes there?’ The shout-but even before the party could respond a watchful guard had spotted the cognisance of Albany-the same as the Royal arms except for the top grate of a portcullis in blue above the lion.
‘It is Albany, The Duke of Albany is come-open the gates!’
In the main courtyard and even before they had brought their tired horses to a halt Laurence could see the King’s Chaplain, Bishop Alexander of St Kentigern and the Royal Steward, Baron Cynfarch of Crighton, waiting, their faces anxious in the torchlight.
Laurence tossed his reins to a page and greeted the two men, stalwarts of the King’s Privy Council.
‘I can imagine from this reception and the look on both of your faces that the news is not good?’ Laurence said tersely.
‘My Lord-the King is not likely to last the night-we are both right glad that you were able to get here in such short time.’ This from the Bishop, a kindly-faced man, who had been elevated to his position purely on merit and because he was loved-unlike so many of his ilk whose pre-eminence had been the result of grasping and scrambling for power and position: he had provided his liege much comfort in his twilight years.
As they marched through the castle towards the royal private quarters Laurence plugged his hosts for information: ‘Who else is here My Lords?’ With the old king on his deathbed it was essential for Laurence to try and work out how the dice were falling.
‘Duke Brice of Connacht is here My Lord-as are all the Council.’ The Baron responded smoothly.
Brice was here of course because he was the Lord Chancellor, Laurence thought, ‘and the other Irish Dukes?’
‘Word has reached us that they will both, Leinster and Munster, be here in the next few days…we understand that neither has changed their mind about the election your Grace-Ulster, of course, rots in a Welsh prison at that harlot's pleasure.'
Laurence exhaled softly at this. The Irish lords, constantly fractious and mettlesome were always an unknown quantity-had driven his Uncle to distraction as he had tried, unsuccessfully, for many years immediately after his succession, to have his daughter, Bethoc of England, nominated as Heir apparent. It was even rumoured that the assassination of one of that number, Walter of Leinster, had been the product of a plot between the King and some of his rivals-nothing was ever proven, of course…
The good news was that Leinster’s successor, Radulf, was an eleven year old stripling and would be biddable-there would be no trouble from the Irish this time.
They were almost at the King’s Quarters now, indeed, as they approached the numbers waiting, expectant grew-courtiers and lords and some of the ladies. Like vultures, Laurence thought grimly, waiting to fight over the old man’s carcass.
‘And the Scots? Who is here?’
The bishop took him discretely to one side-out of the view and earshot of the grim-faced huddles outside the King’s bedchamber.
‘Galloway and Lothian are here my Lord; of the Duchess of the Isles there has been no word-they were ever a law unto themselves in that part of the realm. We know that Galloway is no friend, shall we say? I would advise you to tread with caution your Grace.’
Laurence set his mouth firmly: Eithne Dunbar of Lothian was a seven year old girl and was being represented here by her Uncle, Kenneth Dunbar-again there would be no problems with that one. William Mac Giric of Galloway, however, was another matter-had pretensions of his own to the throne though he had no blood ties at all to enable him to sit the Stone of Destiny-he was a man of overblown self-appraisal and little humility-they had clashed many times in the past. He was a man that would need to be watched closely when he was King.
…When he was King. The phrase still took some getting used to. When his uncle had acceded to the throne, already an old man, there had been no love lost between the two of them. He was a mere Earl but blamed the old man for the untimely demise of his own father, stripped of his Connacht Dukedom for himself flying too high and too far, plotting with the Irish lords to wrest for himself the crown of Ireland. The exasperated Queen could have gone further but she settled merely for reducing him and binding him to plot no further. His father, a man he had never been close to, had never recovered from the ignominy and died a broken man not more than two years later. In truth Laurence had felt no sorrow-in terms of character and temperament he had nothing in common with Robert of Gwynedd for, where his father’s skills of diplomacy had been amateur, Laurence was a master, he could plot, scheme and administer. Indeed many said that another trait that he had inherited, that of lust, was more akin to the proclivities of his uncle than ever his father who had always been a chaste man.
So it had been a shock and a surprise in the summer of 1112, when he had been summonsed from his estates in Wales for an audience with the King and had been presented with nothing less than two Dukedoms, those of Gwynedd and Albany. Albany, of course, was traditionally held by the Kings and Queens of Scotland themselves and often conferred on their heirs.
‘You understand why I am honouring you thus boy?’ Richard had asked in a private moment before the investiture ceremony at Scone,
Laurence had shaken his head-he was baffled in truth. Baffled at the momentousness of what he was being given and baffled as to why. As the two locked eyes-such similar eyes-Laurence could have sworn that his uncle was about to let him in on some long hid secret-in the event that was not how it transpired.
‘Of course I need an heir that the Electors will unite behind lad and you are the nearest blood relative I have beyond my brood of daughters no?’
‘Yes Sire-I-I hope that I can be worthy of the great trust that you have put in me’ was all he had been able to stammer.
And, later, in the great Chamber of the Palace with all the Court and Council in attendance and as he received his Ducal Coronet the King had made a great show of announcing ‘My heir, a man who I love as the son that I have never had.’ It had been the proudest and one of the scariest moments of his hitherto young life-he had only passed 20 summers…
‘My Lord-shall we proceed?’ The Bishop was asking. Laurence brought himself back from his reverie. For eleven years he had been groomed and prepared himself for rule but now, suddenly, when all was before him, the import of what was soon going to happen threatened to overwhelm him-how was he going to keep all the Lords in check? How would he do without the wise counsel of his uncle-a man who he had grown to love dearly?
‘Yes gentlemen-lead on’ he heard himself saying as if from afar. His feet felt like lead weights as he entered the King’s bedchamber. It was stiflingly hot in there-a complete contrast to the frigid February night. Why was it that when one was on their deathbed the room was prepared as if to get its subject ready for their descent into hell? Two hearths were roaring with flames that the servants had been keeping fully stoked.
Richard I of Scots was propped up on his bed-his face grey and sunken-showing the ravages of the illness that had gripped him this last few days. His breathing was shallow and wheezing but his eyes were still bright. By his side, his beautiful young wife, Queen Eadflæd, as well as their youngest daughter, little Deirdre-inconsolable on the bed with her old father. Richard had always been a bit of a lothario with many a courtier as well as his two Queens and his many offspring bearing testament to his lusty nature. That theirs had remained a strong bond even after the Queen had told him to dismiss his lover Eithne not long after he came to the throne, was an indicator of the mutual esteem in which they held each other. Eithne had not done badly if being ‘banished’ with a pension and small estate in Ireland could be seen as misfortune.
‘Leave me all of you!’ he signed. His daughter wailed all the louder at the thought of being separated from him but she was gently prised away by the Queen who gave Laurence a comforting glance through her own tears as she hurried past.
When all the Doctors and priests in attendance had also all filed out and they were finally alone the King beckoned the younger man over, ‘Come sit beside me Laurence-I would fain speak of weighty matters with you.’
‘My liege.’ Laurence did as he was bidden, pulling up a stool and perching unsteadily beside the King. He took his Liege’s hands between his in the age-old gesture of fealty
Richard of Moray reached out to grasp Albany’s shoulders and held them-the gesture at once firm but also comforting. Tears ran silently down the Duke’s face.
‘Pish and nonsense lad-you will do just fine without me!’ Richard croaked as if reading his thoughts. ‘I will not lie boy-you have become very dear to me these last ten years.’
‘And you Sire’ Laurence said his voice cracking with emotion,
‘Come lad-come. It is not so bad. Who would have thought that I would get to reign for so long eh?’ A rattling noise emitted from the old man’s throat-it was, Laurence, realised laughter.
‘Almost sixteen years lad-who would have thought it? And my wits gone not a jot-still got the bright old mind working-just my tired old body has given up on me eh?’
Laurence was, by now, openly weeping, gripping the Kings rough hands between his two he kissed them softly. Richard, for his part stroked the back of his heir’s head.
‘Come now Laurence-where is this much vaunted hardness, some would say cruelness of nature that you are so renowned for?’
‘I-I don’t know what I will do without you Uncle-have come to love you as a father’ Laurence sobbed.
‘My boy! My boy! Look you-remember the Great tourney that I held in 1110?’
The sudden change of subject brought Laurence out of his misery-he looked up at his Uncle enquiringly. ‘Yes my Lord-of course-who could forget it-it was a glorious occasion. That Morgan of Kildare was quite the paladin.’
‘You were still-what eighteen? I remember though how you took to it with no fear-didn’t get far did you-like me you are not a natural warrior but that fire in your belly gives you great strength eh? And that hardness about you makes you no mean battle commander no’
‘True Sire-some say that I am cruel. My mother was always trying to rein in that side of me.’
The King appraised his younger relative, ‘Ah Lowry-she was a beautiful woman…Yes you can be cruel my Lord Duke but I think you can channel it for better purposes when you are king?’ A violent, racking, coughing fit came upon Richard at that prompting Laurence to spring up-pour some cool water into a silver goblet and offer it to his liege, propping his head up with his other hand as he got him to sip.
‘Uncle you should rest-shall I fetch the Doctors back in?’
‘No! No!’ They are charlatans and leeches-their poultices and endless bleeding only serve to weaken me lad! No listen there is something that I must tell you.’ Richard’s eyes were burning brightly now and he was suddenly gripping Laurence’s hand with a strength that belied both his age and his condition.
‘Sire-please don’t over exert yourself-please.’
The King relaxed somewhat though the vice-like grip remained. ‘Laurence I hope that you will be able to accept what I am about to tell you-God knows I hope that your father can-may the Angels give him rest.’
The intensity with which Richard was now looking at Laurence gave the younger man an involuntary shiver-it took him back all those years back to the Great Hall in Scone and his investiture ceremony as heir and Duke of Albany and Gwynedd. That look upon the King’s face…his words about his mother…
The Duke’s face jolted up suddenly-he released Richard’s hand as if he had been scalded and stumbled off the stool, standing up.
‘Yes lad-I am your natural father…we could not say anything to your real da-it would have destroyed him. Please.’
All these years Laurence had wondered why he had so little in common with his father he had been living a lie, in effect, he was actually the product of an illicit coupling? It was almost too much-he staggered back. ‘Am I-a bastard?’ He mouthed a terrified look in his eye. Bastardy was not looked upon kindly in those times especially not in one so close to the throne.
The king could only hold out his hands in supplication, ‘you are what we have always said you are-you are the eldest of Robert and Lowry Mac Ailpin, you are Duke of Albany and Gwynedd and my heir. That is it son-that is all.’
For long seconds Laurence stood on the brink of dissolution but a part of him, the ambitious, calculating part knew that he could not go back-the King had arranged things for his best advantage-why should he reject that?
And then, finally, the son that he was took over and he flung himself onto the bed and into his father’s grateful embrace…
They talked long into the night, of the wars in Wales against Queen Myfanwy-a war that Richard had launched on Laurence’s behalf back in 1114 and one which had now dragged on for ten whole years. They had not been able to prosecute it swiftly for despite early gains, Scotland had been dragged back into the endless wars in England and the need for Richard to, once again, support his daughter had meant that forces had to be split of necessity. That and further revolts in Thomond and the Faerie Isles had ensured that their main effort against the Welsh were to be stymied.
The prize of the whole of Wales along with Devon and Cornwall was once more in sight now that Bethoc had lost her crown and was merely the Duchess of Essex and Lancaster.
‘If you can help your cousin-your half sister-my son it would give an old man much peace’ The King had murmured. ‘Finish what I started when I took Powys back for you. I was schooled by my own grandfather to once more re-unite the Celtic Kingdoms-it is all within your grasp now..’ Richard’s voice was growing weaker-Laurence glanced towards one of the room's arrow slits and saw that the sky was brightening outside-he must have been here for many hours.
‘I will do whatever I can once Wales is mine Sire-that I do promise and now you must get some rest.’
‘Yes rest son. I am now at peace-can travel on. Who would have thought I would get so long eh?’ And he gave a smile at that, closed his eyes and with a sigh breathed his last.
The Duke of Albany had felt him go but he was still unprepared for it. He gripped the frail old man, hugged him close, shook him for any hint that a modicum of life remained and when it was obvious that his King had passed on he simply rocked back and forth with him-holding him tight.
An interminable time later he came to his senses and as some last few tears dropped from his eyes he arranged the King in a more dignified position. The old man was now at peace-truly looked like he was just sleeping. Laurence composed himself, smoothed his rumpled clothes, wiped his eyes-adjusted his plaid and moved to call the Lords and all assembled. By the time those outside beheld their new monarch to be his face was set in a determined and purposeful mien.
King Richard was dead-long Live King Laurence, first of that name, King of Scots and Ireland!
15th February 1124
The imposing rocky edifice had been at the centre of the old Kingdom of Strathclyde until the Danes had come. Known as Alt Chluaidh or ‘Clyde Rock’ in old Gaelic, Laurence could see why this fortress was of such strategic significance and also why his Uncle, the King, had chosen to decamp there in these last few years of his reign. Bordered on its southern side by the mighty Clyde River at nearly its widest, the other three aspects of the castle rose up steeply from a vertiginous rocky outcrop making it a very difficult prospect to assault indeed.
Now this Dun Breatann or fortress of the Britons was fortress of the Scots and though a kingly residence it was receiving a very important visitor. The old King's nephew: Laurence, Duke of Albany and Gwynedd and his men at arms had approached by the North-eastern Postern gate-a steep, pitted track that had brought them through the old town.
The sight of so many torches and the sigil of Albany, so similar to that of the royal coat of arms of Scotland: a rampant lion in crimson against a saffron background surrounded by twin escutcheons of the order of the thistle, had brought the garrison to a state of high alert.
‘Who passes there?’ The shout-but even before the party could respond a watchful guard had spotted the cognisance of Albany-the same as the Royal arms except for the top grate of a portcullis in blue above the lion.
‘It is Albany, The Duke of Albany is come-open the gates!’
In the main courtyard and even before they had brought their tired horses to a halt Laurence could see the King’s Chaplain, Bishop Alexander of St Kentigern and the Royal Steward, Baron Cynfarch of Crighton, waiting, their faces anxious in the torchlight.
Laurence tossed his reins to a page and greeted the two men, stalwarts of the King’s Privy Council.
‘I can imagine from this reception and the look on both of your faces that the news is not good?’ Laurence said tersely.
‘My Lord-the King is not likely to last the night-we are both right glad that you were able to get here in such short time.’ This from the Bishop, a kindly-faced man, who had been elevated to his position purely on merit and because he was loved-unlike so many of his ilk whose pre-eminence had been the result of grasping and scrambling for power and position: he had provided his liege much comfort in his twilight years.
As they marched through the castle towards the royal private quarters Laurence plugged his hosts for information: ‘Who else is here My Lords?’ With the old king on his deathbed it was essential for Laurence to try and work out how the dice were falling.
‘Duke Brice of Connacht is here My Lord-as are all the Council.’ The Baron responded smoothly.
Brice was here of course because he was the Lord Chancellor, Laurence thought, ‘and the other Irish Dukes?’
‘Word has reached us that they will both, Leinster and Munster, be here in the next few days…we understand that neither has changed their mind about the election your Grace-Ulster, of course, rots in a Welsh prison at that harlot's pleasure.'
Laurence exhaled softly at this. The Irish lords, constantly fractious and mettlesome were always an unknown quantity-had driven his Uncle to distraction as he had tried, unsuccessfully, for many years immediately after his succession, to have his daughter, Bethoc of England, nominated as Heir apparent. It was even rumoured that the assassination of one of that number, Walter of Leinster, had been the product of a plot between the King and some of his rivals-nothing was ever proven, of course…
The good news was that Leinster’s successor, Radulf, was an eleven year old stripling and would be biddable-there would be no trouble from the Irish this time.
They were almost at the King’s Quarters now, indeed, as they approached the numbers waiting, expectant grew-courtiers and lords and some of the ladies. Like vultures, Laurence thought grimly, waiting to fight over the old man’s carcass.
‘And the Scots? Who is here?’
The bishop took him discretely to one side-out of the view and earshot of the grim-faced huddles outside the King’s bedchamber.
‘Galloway and Lothian are here my Lord; of the Duchess of the Isles there has been no word-they were ever a law unto themselves in that part of the realm. We know that Galloway is no friend, shall we say? I would advise you to tread with caution your Grace.’
Laurence set his mouth firmly: Eithne Dunbar of Lothian was a seven year old girl and was being represented here by her Uncle, Kenneth Dunbar-again there would be no problems with that one. William Mac Giric of Galloway, however, was another matter-had pretensions of his own to the throne though he had no blood ties at all to enable him to sit the Stone of Destiny-he was a man of overblown self-appraisal and little humility-they had clashed many times in the past. He was a man that would need to be watched closely when he was King.
…When he was King. The phrase still took some getting used to. When his uncle had acceded to the throne, already an old man, there had been no love lost between the two of them. He was a mere Earl but blamed the old man for the untimely demise of his own father, stripped of his Connacht Dukedom for himself flying too high and too far, plotting with the Irish lords to wrest for himself the crown of Ireland. The exasperated Queen could have gone further but she settled merely for reducing him and binding him to plot no further. His father, a man he had never been close to, had never recovered from the ignominy and died a broken man not more than two years later. In truth Laurence had felt no sorrow-in terms of character and temperament he had nothing in common with Robert of Gwynedd for, where his father’s skills of diplomacy had been amateur, Laurence was a master, he could plot, scheme and administer. Indeed many said that another trait that he had inherited, that of lust, was more akin to the proclivities of his uncle than ever his father who had always been a chaste man.
So it had been a shock and a surprise in the summer of 1112, when he had been summonsed from his estates in Wales for an audience with the King and had been presented with nothing less than two Dukedoms, those of Gwynedd and Albany. Albany, of course, was traditionally held by the Kings and Queens of Scotland themselves and often conferred on their heirs.
‘You understand why I am honouring you thus boy?’ Richard had asked in a private moment before the investiture ceremony at Scone,
Laurence had shaken his head-he was baffled in truth. Baffled at the momentousness of what he was being given and baffled as to why. As the two locked eyes-such similar eyes-Laurence could have sworn that his uncle was about to let him in on some long hid secret-in the event that was not how it transpired.
‘Of course I need an heir that the Electors will unite behind lad and you are the nearest blood relative I have beyond my brood of daughters no?’
‘Yes Sire-I-I hope that I can be worthy of the great trust that you have put in me’ was all he had been able to stammer.
And, later, in the great Chamber of the Palace with all the Court and Council in attendance and as he received his Ducal Coronet the King had made a great show of announcing ‘My heir, a man who I love as the son that I have never had.’ It had been the proudest and one of the scariest moments of his hitherto young life-he had only passed 20 summers…
‘My Lord-shall we proceed?’ The Bishop was asking. Laurence brought himself back from his reverie. For eleven years he had been groomed and prepared himself for rule but now, suddenly, when all was before him, the import of what was soon going to happen threatened to overwhelm him-how was he going to keep all the Lords in check? How would he do without the wise counsel of his uncle-a man who he had grown to love dearly?
‘Yes gentlemen-lead on’ he heard himself saying as if from afar. His feet felt like lead weights as he entered the King’s bedchamber. It was stiflingly hot in there-a complete contrast to the frigid February night. Why was it that when one was on their deathbed the room was prepared as if to get its subject ready for their descent into hell? Two hearths were roaring with flames that the servants had been keeping fully stoked.
Richard I of Scots was propped up on his bed-his face grey and sunken-showing the ravages of the illness that had gripped him this last few days. His breathing was shallow and wheezing but his eyes were still bright. By his side, his beautiful young wife, Queen Eadflæd, as well as their youngest daughter, little Deirdre-inconsolable on the bed with her old father. Richard had always been a bit of a lothario with many a courtier as well as his two Queens and his many offspring bearing testament to his lusty nature. That theirs had remained a strong bond even after the Queen had told him to dismiss his lover Eithne not long after he came to the throne, was an indicator of the mutual esteem in which they held each other. Eithne had not done badly if being ‘banished’ with a pension and small estate in Ireland could be seen as misfortune.
‘Leave me all of you!’ he signed. His daughter wailed all the louder at the thought of being separated from him but she was gently prised away by the Queen who gave Laurence a comforting glance through her own tears as she hurried past.
When all the Doctors and priests in attendance had also all filed out and they were finally alone the King beckoned the younger man over, ‘Come sit beside me Laurence-I would fain speak of weighty matters with you.’
‘My liege.’ Laurence did as he was bidden, pulling up a stool and perching unsteadily beside the King. He took his Liege’s hands between his in the age-old gesture of fealty
Richard of Moray reached out to grasp Albany’s shoulders and held them-the gesture at once firm but also comforting. Tears ran silently down the Duke’s face.
‘Pish and nonsense lad-you will do just fine without me!’ Richard croaked as if reading his thoughts. ‘I will not lie boy-you have become very dear to me these last ten years.’
‘And you Sire’ Laurence said his voice cracking with emotion,
‘Come lad-come. It is not so bad. Who would have thought that I would get to reign for so long eh?’ A rattling noise emitted from the old man’s throat-it was, Laurence, realised laughter.
‘Almost sixteen years lad-who would have thought it? And my wits gone not a jot-still got the bright old mind working-just my tired old body has given up on me eh?’
Laurence was, by now, openly weeping, gripping the Kings rough hands between his two he kissed them softly. Richard, for his part stroked the back of his heir’s head.
‘Come now Laurence-where is this much vaunted hardness, some would say cruelness of nature that you are so renowned for?’
‘I-I don’t know what I will do without you Uncle-have come to love you as a father’ Laurence sobbed.
‘My boy! My boy! Look you-remember the Great tourney that I held in 1110?’
The sudden change of subject brought Laurence out of his misery-he looked up at his Uncle enquiringly. ‘Yes my Lord-of course-who could forget it-it was a glorious occasion. That Morgan of Kildare was quite the paladin.’
‘You were still-what eighteen? I remember though how you took to it with no fear-didn’t get far did you-like me you are not a natural warrior but that fire in your belly gives you great strength eh? And that hardness about you makes you no mean battle commander no’
‘True Sire-some say that I am cruel. My mother was always trying to rein in that side of me.’
The King appraised his younger relative, ‘Ah Lowry-she was a beautiful woman…Yes you can be cruel my Lord Duke but I think you can channel it for better purposes when you are king?’ A violent, racking, coughing fit came upon Richard at that prompting Laurence to spring up-pour some cool water into a silver goblet and offer it to his liege, propping his head up with his other hand as he got him to sip.
‘Uncle you should rest-shall I fetch the Doctors back in?’
‘No! No!’ They are charlatans and leeches-their poultices and endless bleeding only serve to weaken me lad! No listen there is something that I must tell you.’ Richard’s eyes were burning brightly now and he was suddenly gripping Laurence’s hand with a strength that belied both his age and his condition.
‘Sire-please don’t over exert yourself-please.’
The King relaxed somewhat though the vice-like grip remained. ‘Laurence I hope that you will be able to accept what I am about to tell you-God knows I hope that your father can-may the Angels give him rest.’
The intensity with which Richard was now looking at Laurence gave the younger man an involuntary shiver-it took him back all those years back to the Great Hall in Scone and his investiture ceremony as heir and Duke of Albany and Gwynedd. That look upon the King’s face…his words about his mother…
The Duke’s face jolted up suddenly-he released Richard’s hand as if he had been scalded and stumbled off the stool, standing up.
‘Yes lad-I am your natural father…we could not say anything to your real da-it would have destroyed him. Please.’
All these years Laurence had wondered why he had so little in common with his father he had been living a lie, in effect, he was actually the product of an illicit coupling? It was almost too much-he staggered back. ‘Am I-a bastard?’ He mouthed a terrified look in his eye. Bastardy was not looked upon kindly in those times especially not in one so close to the throne.
The king could only hold out his hands in supplication, ‘you are what we have always said you are-you are the eldest of Robert and Lowry Mac Ailpin, you are Duke of Albany and Gwynedd and my heir. That is it son-that is all.’
For long seconds Laurence stood on the brink of dissolution but a part of him, the ambitious, calculating part knew that he could not go back-the King had arranged things for his best advantage-why should he reject that?
And then, finally, the son that he was took over and he flung himself onto the bed and into his father’s grateful embrace…
They talked long into the night, of the wars in Wales against Queen Myfanwy-a war that Richard had launched on Laurence’s behalf back in 1114 and one which had now dragged on for ten whole years. They had not been able to prosecute it swiftly for despite early gains, Scotland had been dragged back into the endless wars in England and the need for Richard to, once again, support his daughter had meant that forces had to be split of necessity. That and further revolts in Thomond and the Faerie Isles had ensured that their main effort against the Welsh were to be stymied.
The prize of the whole of Wales along with Devon and Cornwall was once more in sight now that Bethoc had lost her crown and was merely the Duchess of Essex and Lancaster.
‘If you can help your cousin-your half sister-my son it would give an old man much peace’ The King had murmured. ‘Finish what I started when I took Powys back for you. I was schooled by my own grandfather to once more re-unite the Celtic Kingdoms-it is all within your grasp now..’ Richard’s voice was growing weaker-Laurence glanced towards one of the room's arrow slits and saw that the sky was brightening outside-he must have been here for many hours.
‘I will do whatever I can once Wales is mine Sire-that I do promise and now you must get some rest.’
‘Yes rest son. I am now at peace-can travel on. Who would have thought I would get so long eh?’ And he gave a smile at that, closed his eyes and with a sigh breathed his last.
The Duke of Albany had felt him go but he was still unprepared for it. He gripped the frail old man, hugged him close, shook him for any hint that a modicum of life remained and when it was obvious that his King had passed on he simply rocked back and forth with him-holding him tight.
An interminable time later he came to his senses and as some last few tears dropped from his eyes he arranged the King in a more dignified position. The old man was now at peace-truly looked like he was just sleeping. Laurence composed himself, smoothed his rumpled clothes, wiped his eyes-adjusted his plaid and moved to call the Lords and all assembled. By the time those outside beheld their new monarch to be his face was set in a determined and purposeful mien.
King Richard was dead-long Live King Laurence, first of that name, King of Scots and Ireland!
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Oops I wanted to say that after all this activity(tournament ,marital affair and such ) stress seems legit as a cause of death
Aha. Yeah he had a lot on his plate what with trying to keep his daughter on the throne, taking Wales for his son and keeping his own fractious lords in check. Strangely though he also got the 'content' trait not long before he died lol. Sometimes the game mechanics don't make a lot of sense...that said I guess he would've been quite content: he got to reign for 16 years and see his son elected as King-not bad eh?
I'm hoping for great things for Laurence-consolidation and building and maybe a crusade hehe
A few Miles from the Welsh Hamlet of Rhuddalt, Powys
10th October 1124
Combined Scots/Burgundian Army
The five riders had detached themselves from the main body of the army and made their way slowly to the highest point of what, for hilly and mountainous Wales, was a relatively flat expanse of land stretching from the Brecon Beacons in front southwards, to the lowering Mountains of Eryri behind to their North and West. Though it was midmorning-a clear and brilliant one at that-it was crisp and cold: a reminder that this was the end of campaigning season. Their men at arms would soon be pining for home, Laurence thought as he turned his horse to address his three companions. ‘It seems my Lords that we have finally brought our elusive quarry to bay. I believe that settlement yonder to be called Rhuddalt-or Crossgates in our tongue.’
Another rider, also wearing a gold circlet snapped into an indent on his helmet, snorted in derision and spoke in heavily accented Latin, ‘Finally indeed Your Grace! Would that your Scots were as eager as my Burgundians we would have finished this campaign ere a month past!’
Laurence could feel his liegemen bristling at this bald statement so quickly interjected, ‘King Erich we will forever be in your debt-no doubt, but I would remind you, Sir, that you and your countrymen amount to only a quarter of our power. There will be time enough for you and them to prove your mettle when battle is joined.’
As they looked out over the ground to their fore they could see the Welsh dispositions clearly, arranging themselves into line of battle. This was the last throw of the dice for the Welsh Queen, Myfanwy, who had been harried all year by Laurence and his Scots Army. Her guerrilla tactics had largely been successful, as had the welsh policy of striking hard then melting away into the countryside or into their strongholds and fortified towns. It was not until Erich of Burgundy had answered Laurence’s call to arms that the war had begun, finally, to swing in their favour.
Of his three other companions, one who carried with him an air of great authority and martial prowess, simply adorned with mail shirt, tunic and saffron kilt, spurred forward and with arm outstretched addressed his Sire ‘See my Liege how clever our foe has been. They have chosen the best possible ground and have anchored their left by the Clywedog Brook and their right with the River Ithon. Although the brook is passable the ground all around is marshy and boggy. The river is not an obstacle we will be able to bypass-at least not with our heavy foot…’
Next to speak was a fair haired youth who bore more than a passing resemblance to the King of Scots-unsurprising since this was his cousin, Cristin’s son. Alan Mac Ailpin’s locks were as fair as Laurence’s were red however. He was also heir, through his mother, to the Kingdom of Hungary and a budding battle commander already, though a mere eighteen summers had he passed. ‘Malmure speaks true my Lords but they are but half our numbers-we will surely crush them anyhow-won’t we?’ He trailed off, uncertain.
The last to speak was an Irishman judging by his leggings and more exotic dress-braids hung below the helmet-he was old, grizzled and heavy set but spoke softly, ‘see you sirs-they have thinned out both their flanks-it looks from here as if maybe a third to half the numbers in order to reinforce the centre-it is clever.’
Laurence whistled to himself ‘My Lord of Connacht speaks true-it is a very clever ploy-they have taken up a position where our superior numbers may count for nothing but in the centre they have matched us man for man.’
‘We understand from captured scouts that they are commanded by The Mayor of Newport boy!’ Exclaimed King Erich dismissively, ‘And a bishop and another mayor lead the flanks.’ The unspoken words were that mere administrators were to be no match for the finest nobility of Europe.
Alan interposed himself with a brashness unusual for a mere stripling: ‘Mayor Maredudd of Swansea is nonetheless one of Myfanwy’s most able battle commanders my Lord King-we should not underestimate him nor Brwt of Newport!’
Erich who liked his fellow King, Laurence, despite a reputation for cruelty back home, nevertheless bridled at being upbraided by a mere youth, ‘you presume too much Sirrah-‘
‘Enough!’ Laurence shouted, ‘Stop this bickering My Lords! Remember which side we fight on-save your ire for the enemy I pray you-there will be time enough for this when we meet them on the field!’ The King of Scots had physically ridden between his kinsman and the irascible Erich to stop them coming to blows: throughout this campaign-or certainly since the Burgundians had joined them he had found himself expending almost as much energy keeping his unruly lords apart as fighting the enemy.
Turning back to the vistas before him Laurence strained to see whether there were any more tricks that he hadn’t spied-could see none and rapped out his orders: ‘Malmure of Fareyar, you will command the centre, as usual. My Lord Alan will take the left, King Erich the right. I will command the reserve.’ There were grim nods-the battle plan was no change from the usual. ‘The Duke of Connacht will, however command our light horse. Your Grace I have a special instruction for you-I want you to take your power behind and to the left-find somewhere to ford the river and bring your men out onto the enemy right flank…’
The Duke looked doubtful, ‘My Liege-we have no heavy horse-how will we achieve shock action?’
Laurence grasped the older man’s shoulder ‘have faith Brice-think on it-they are maybe five-six hundred at most on each flank-delay any action until you feel the press of battle is at it’s height then launch yourself upon their flank and rear. At worst your numbers will be even and they will not look for a charge from that side-least of all from horsemen.’
Alan laughed loudly and with appreciation-‘It may well work Sire-it may well work.’
Even Erich was quietly appreciative and turned to his fellow monarch ‘this is well done lad! I have no doubt that today will be a charnel house particularly for Malmure in the centre-the Welsh are possessed of daemons methinks-but this, your plan, may well bring the battle to a speedier conclusion so that we can finally crush that Welsh bitch and all go home!’
Laurence nodded in appreciation at the praise seldom given by that man of Burgundy even if he winced at the language attributed to a fellow reigning monarch. He then gave the order ‘to your dispositions my Lords-we have work to do! Pray God that we can make our numbers count!’
The fight had now been raging for the better part of the day judging by the position of the sun to their front right and standing up in his stirrups to see from his vantage point just behind the centre Laurence could see that they were now in a state of stalemate-neither side of the evenly matched numbers of each force able to get any purchase. He was with a small force of light infantry and the archers that had retired from their forward positions. They numbered around five hundred but what the King was trying to ascertain was at what point to commit his reserve. Of Brice’s cavalry there was no sign and periodically riders would arrive from each of his battles, breathless and blood spattered to demand reinforcing.
‘I cannot reinforce all of them!’ Laurence had shouted exasperated at the latest from Malmure’s hard-pressed centre, ‘tell him to hold until I am sure where the point of enemy weakness reveals itself-GO!’
Because of the narrow battle front between the two water obstacles neither Erich on the right or Alan on the left could deploy their full power and so were constrained to fighting on the enemy terms. Add to this the Welsh skilful use of their archers and the battle was costing them dearly. Laurence had even found himself thinking he could use archers like these once Wales was conquered…
Sudden shouting and pointing from his men jolted him back to the struggle at hand. People were gesticulating and pointing to their front left-far to the east, beyond the enemy right flank-where the River Ithon cut a gentle furrow through the land.
‘Our horse! Our horse!’ Then Laurence could see himself-a commotion out on the enemy right flank that until now had been the very model of obduracy. Riders-many hundreds of them were crashing into the rear of that flank turning all to bloody confusion. Laurence could just hear the battle cry of the Irish ‘À Connacht! À Connacht!’
This was the time: dismounting, he signalled to his pages and squires to ready the reserve. Moments later he was told they were ready. He raised his arm and when it dropped set off at a fast trot with five hundred screaming Scotsmen behind him. He had made sure that the reserve mainly consisted of his beloved and warlike Moray Highlanders, clad in brocade tunics with plaid, a large Celtic shield in the old style and swinging their deadly claymores. They eschewed mail, these, though his royal bodyguard were armoured like he. All followed the banner of the royal arms of Scotland-a cognisance that Laurence also wore on his surcoat so all may know who he was.
Leading them around the left side of Alan’s hard pressed left flank Laurence threw this new, fresh, force at the buckling Welsh right. The shock of this, as well as the panic engendered by the attack to their rear, was the moment of reckoning for the Welsh army. The whole flank disintegrated in bloody rout. Laurence himself was, briefly, in the thickest press of battle, taking down two spearmen who blindly struck at him with their pikes before trying to flee. And then all was pursuit-the soldiers to their fore melting away as they ran-only to be chased down by Brice’s horsemen.
‘Wheel! Wheel to the centre!’ Laurence was shouting-trying to get his force to swing right so that they could interpose themselves on the bloodiest fighting of all in the middle. After beating about his men with the flat of his sword and waving his arms wildly they at last slowly, stubbornly, started to turn-bringing some of their power to bear on the carnage in the centre. When the Welsh there and indeed on the left realised what was happening all fight deserted them and the rout was complete. Laurence had always been taught that when an army started to run it was like a deadly infection: there was very little that could be done to stop it from spreading and within an instant the whole body would be fleeing in panic-this was where, often, the most slaughter occurred as men were hunted down and slain without quarter.
As it happened Malmure’s force was in no state to pursue, though the Burgundians took off after the scattered remnants of the Welsh army. Connacht’s cavalry-or what was left of them-they had taken fearful losses on their approach from arrow fire-did most of the harrying and chasing.
As Laurence rested in the company of an exhausted Malmure and Alan Mac Ailpin, word was brought them that Mayor Maredudd of Swansea had been captured. Of the other Welsh Leader, Brwt there was no sign. Bishop Ordulff was dead by all accounts.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the hills to the west when news was brought to them that Duke Brice of Connacht, too was dead: slain by an arrow in that mad, desperate, final charge. It was a grievous loss: Connacht had been a friend-he was a good leader too and someone who had served his father well as Lord Chancellor-he would be missed…
Laurence beckoned to one of his scribes, ‘Pen this note in Gaelic for Myfanwy sometime called Queen of Wales: your forces are broken, finally. I will accept your surrender at the Castle town of Caerdydd in two days hence. If you accept I will see to it that you are duly honoured-you will keep your Duchy of Deheubarth and your Vassals will pass to me. Refuse and I will destroy you and yours utterly. I trust that you will do the right thing. Laurentius Rex’
Laurence gave a sigh, despatched the boy and called for his men at arms-they would sleep in proper beds in the town of Rhuddalt this evening-there would be no sacking, rapine or pillaging, however: these were now his subjects-Wales was reconquered…
10th October 1124
Combined Scots/Burgundian Army
The five riders had detached themselves from the main body of the army and made their way slowly to the highest point of what, for hilly and mountainous Wales, was a relatively flat expanse of land stretching from the Brecon Beacons in front southwards, to the lowering Mountains of Eryri behind to their North and West. Though it was midmorning-a clear and brilliant one at that-it was crisp and cold: a reminder that this was the end of campaigning season. Their men at arms would soon be pining for home, Laurence thought as he turned his horse to address his three companions. ‘It seems my Lords that we have finally brought our elusive quarry to bay. I believe that settlement yonder to be called Rhuddalt-or Crossgates in our tongue.’
Another rider, also wearing a gold circlet snapped into an indent on his helmet, snorted in derision and spoke in heavily accented Latin, ‘Finally indeed Your Grace! Would that your Scots were as eager as my Burgundians we would have finished this campaign ere a month past!’
Laurence could feel his liegemen bristling at this bald statement so quickly interjected, ‘King Erich we will forever be in your debt-no doubt, but I would remind you, Sir, that you and your countrymen amount to only a quarter of our power. There will be time enough for you and them to prove your mettle when battle is joined.’
As they looked out over the ground to their fore they could see the Welsh dispositions clearly, arranging themselves into line of battle. This was the last throw of the dice for the Welsh Queen, Myfanwy, who had been harried all year by Laurence and his Scots Army. Her guerrilla tactics had largely been successful, as had the welsh policy of striking hard then melting away into the countryside or into their strongholds and fortified towns. It was not until Erich of Burgundy had answered Laurence’s call to arms that the war had begun, finally, to swing in their favour.
Of his three other companions, one who carried with him an air of great authority and martial prowess, simply adorned with mail shirt, tunic and saffron kilt, spurred forward and with arm outstretched addressed his Sire ‘See my Liege how clever our foe has been. They have chosen the best possible ground and have anchored their left by the Clywedog Brook and their right with the River Ithon. Although the brook is passable the ground all around is marshy and boggy. The river is not an obstacle we will be able to bypass-at least not with our heavy foot…’
Next to speak was a fair haired youth who bore more than a passing resemblance to the King of Scots-unsurprising since this was his cousin, Cristin’s son. Alan Mac Ailpin’s locks were as fair as Laurence’s were red however. He was also heir, through his mother, to the Kingdom of Hungary and a budding battle commander already, though a mere eighteen summers had he passed. ‘Malmure speaks true my Lords but they are but half our numbers-we will surely crush them anyhow-won’t we?’ He trailed off, uncertain.
The last to speak was an Irishman judging by his leggings and more exotic dress-braids hung below the helmet-he was old, grizzled and heavy set but spoke softly, ‘see you sirs-they have thinned out both their flanks-it looks from here as if maybe a third to half the numbers in order to reinforce the centre-it is clever.’
Laurence whistled to himself ‘My Lord of Connacht speaks true-it is a very clever ploy-they have taken up a position where our superior numbers may count for nothing but in the centre they have matched us man for man.’
‘We understand from captured scouts that they are commanded by The Mayor of Newport boy!’ Exclaimed King Erich dismissively, ‘And a bishop and another mayor lead the flanks.’ The unspoken words were that mere administrators were to be no match for the finest nobility of Europe.
Alan interposed himself with a brashness unusual for a mere stripling: ‘Mayor Maredudd of Swansea is nonetheless one of Myfanwy’s most able battle commanders my Lord King-we should not underestimate him nor Brwt of Newport!’
Erich who liked his fellow King, Laurence, despite a reputation for cruelty back home, nevertheless bridled at being upbraided by a mere youth, ‘you presume too much Sirrah-‘
‘Enough!’ Laurence shouted, ‘Stop this bickering My Lords! Remember which side we fight on-save your ire for the enemy I pray you-there will be time enough for this when we meet them on the field!’ The King of Scots had physically ridden between his kinsman and the irascible Erich to stop them coming to blows: throughout this campaign-or certainly since the Burgundians had joined them he had found himself expending almost as much energy keeping his unruly lords apart as fighting the enemy.
Turning back to the vistas before him Laurence strained to see whether there were any more tricks that he hadn’t spied-could see none and rapped out his orders: ‘Malmure of Fareyar, you will command the centre, as usual. My Lord Alan will take the left, King Erich the right. I will command the reserve.’ There were grim nods-the battle plan was no change from the usual. ‘The Duke of Connacht will, however command our light horse. Your Grace I have a special instruction for you-I want you to take your power behind and to the left-find somewhere to ford the river and bring your men out onto the enemy right flank…’
The Duke looked doubtful, ‘My Liege-we have no heavy horse-how will we achieve shock action?’
Laurence grasped the older man’s shoulder ‘have faith Brice-think on it-they are maybe five-six hundred at most on each flank-delay any action until you feel the press of battle is at it’s height then launch yourself upon their flank and rear. At worst your numbers will be even and they will not look for a charge from that side-least of all from horsemen.’
Alan laughed loudly and with appreciation-‘It may well work Sire-it may well work.’
Even Erich was quietly appreciative and turned to his fellow monarch ‘this is well done lad! I have no doubt that today will be a charnel house particularly for Malmure in the centre-the Welsh are possessed of daemons methinks-but this, your plan, may well bring the battle to a speedier conclusion so that we can finally crush that Welsh bitch and all go home!’
Laurence nodded in appreciation at the praise seldom given by that man of Burgundy even if he winced at the language attributed to a fellow reigning monarch. He then gave the order ‘to your dispositions my Lords-we have work to do! Pray God that we can make our numbers count!’
Battle of Rhudddalt October 10th 1124
The fight had now been raging for the better part of the day judging by the position of the sun to their front right and standing up in his stirrups to see from his vantage point just behind the centre Laurence could see that they were now in a state of stalemate-neither side of the evenly matched numbers of each force able to get any purchase. He was with a small force of light infantry and the archers that had retired from their forward positions. They numbered around five hundred but what the King was trying to ascertain was at what point to commit his reserve. Of Brice’s cavalry there was no sign and periodically riders would arrive from each of his battles, breathless and blood spattered to demand reinforcing.
‘I cannot reinforce all of them!’ Laurence had shouted exasperated at the latest from Malmure’s hard-pressed centre, ‘tell him to hold until I am sure where the point of enemy weakness reveals itself-GO!’
Because of the narrow battle front between the two water obstacles neither Erich on the right or Alan on the left could deploy their full power and so were constrained to fighting on the enemy terms. Add to this the Welsh skilful use of their archers and the battle was costing them dearly. Laurence had even found himself thinking he could use archers like these once Wales was conquered…
Sudden shouting and pointing from his men jolted him back to the struggle at hand. People were gesticulating and pointing to their front left-far to the east, beyond the enemy right flank-where the River Ithon cut a gentle furrow through the land.
‘Our horse! Our horse!’ Then Laurence could see himself-a commotion out on the enemy right flank that until now had been the very model of obduracy. Riders-many hundreds of them were crashing into the rear of that flank turning all to bloody confusion. Laurence could just hear the battle cry of the Irish ‘À Connacht! À Connacht!’
This was the time: dismounting, he signalled to his pages and squires to ready the reserve. Moments later he was told they were ready. He raised his arm and when it dropped set off at a fast trot with five hundred screaming Scotsmen behind him. He had made sure that the reserve mainly consisted of his beloved and warlike Moray Highlanders, clad in brocade tunics with plaid, a large Celtic shield in the old style and swinging their deadly claymores. They eschewed mail, these, though his royal bodyguard were armoured like he. All followed the banner of the royal arms of Scotland-a cognisance that Laurence also wore on his surcoat so all may know who he was.
Leading them around the left side of Alan’s hard pressed left flank Laurence threw this new, fresh, force at the buckling Welsh right. The shock of this, as well as the panic engendered by the attack to their rear, was the moment of reckoning for the Welsh army. The whole flank disintegrated in bloody rout. Laurence himself was, briefly, in the thickest press of battle, taking down two spearmen who blindly struck at him with their pikes before trying to flee. And then all was pursuit-the soldiers to their fore melting away as they ran-only to be chased down by Brice’s horsemen.
‘Wheel! Wheel to the centre!’ Laurence was shouting-trying to get his force to swing right so that they could interpose themselves on the bloodiest fighting of all in the middle. After beating about his men with the flat of his sword and waving his arms wildly they at last slowly, stubbornly, started to turn-bringing some of their power to bear on the carnage in the centre. When the Welsh there and indeed on the left realised what was happening all fight deserted them and the rout was complete. Laurence had always been taught that when an army started to run it was like a deadly infection: there was very little that could be done to stop it from spreading and within an instant the whole body would be fleeing in panic-this was where, often, the most slaughter occurred as men were hunted down and slain without quarter.
As it happened Malmure’s force was in no state to pursue, though the Burgundians took off after the scattered remnants of the Welsh army. Connacht’s cavalry-or what was left of them-they had taken fearful losses on their approach from arrow fire-did most of the harrying and chasing.
As Laurence rested in the company of an exhausted Malmure and Alan Mac Ailpin, word was brought them that Mayor Maredudd of Swansea had been captured. Of the other Welsh Leader, Brwt there was no sign. Bishop Ordulff was dead by all accounts.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the hills to the west when news was brought to them that Duke Brice of Connacht, too was dead: slain by an arrow in that mad, desperate, final charge. It was a grievous loss: Connacht had been a friend-he was a good leader too and someone who had served his father well as Lord Chancellor-he would be missed…
Laurence beckoned to one of his scribes, ‘Pen this note in Gaelic for Myfanwy sometime called Queen of Wales: your forces are broken, finally. I will accept your surrender at the Castle town of Caerdydd in two days hence. If you accept I will see to it that you are duly honoured-you will keep your Duchy of Deheubarth and your Vassals will pass to me. Refuse and I will destroy you and yours utterly. I trust that you will do the right thing. Laurentius Rex’
Laurence gave a sigh, despatched the boy and called for his men at arms-they would sleep in proper beds in the town of Rhuddalt this evening-there would be no sacking, rapine or pillaging, however: these were now his subjects-Wales was reconquered…
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Why Brittanny? I'm thinking of doing some consolidation in truth. Have spent the last 80 odd years trying to win back to the throne. Scotland is in need of some infrastructure building etc. plus the crusades are ramping up. Although England is a mess I don't really want to provoke them. Same for France...
Very true re the Celts...I will consider it. Might even write the consideration into my next post Van hehe
